‘That’s two single rooms booked for tonight, right next to Emma’s apartment.’ Billie put his phone away and returned his focus to the motorway ahead. ‘Where are we?’
‘Approaching junction eight on the M74,’ said Ed. ‘We’ve another three hours or so on the road if all goes to plan, but my stomach says we might have to add another half hour onto that.’
‘Hmm. Traffic can also be bad on the ring road round Manchester. A friend of mine was telling me last week about it. Roadworks with narrow lanes and speed limits down to fifty.’
‘I know, it’s been going on for years. They call it smart technology. Government strategy for upgrading freeways. Ha! Not so smart when all it does is hold up traffic for hours on end. Another example of politics buggering up our lives.’
They remained silent for a few moments while the windscreen wipers made an occasional sweep, tyre noise filling the gap. Then Ed spoke again. ‘Is that it now? Made all your calls?’
‘Yeah. Tina’s mum and the hotel. I told her I’d check in with Tina tonight on WhatsApp if I can get a connection. She was fine about it. What did you tell Robin?’
Ed gave a sly grin. ‘That you owed him big time. You’d send him a big bunch of flowers and pay for dinner at the Finnie when we get back.’
Billie glanced at his friend and noted the grin. ‘Just remember whose idea this was, Ed. I’d have gone to Manchester on my own if necessary. But I will apologise to Robin when I get the chance.’
‘No worries. Anyhow, I have another proposition for you. How do you fancy a trip to Belfast? I’ve got a sea trial coming up soon and we could easily include Northern Ireland in the schedule. We could check out the dockside there, take in the original slipways and museum. Maybe even get to Portadown? What do you think?’
Billie gave it some thought before responding. ‘I think it’s a great idea. But let’s just take things one step at a time, shall we? I’m more concerned right now with sorting out this business of being suspended. Let’s find Emma and clear that up if we can. Then we can get back to Titanic and stuff.’
‘Fair enough. Although my radar is picking up signs that Emma’s initiatives are going to take us there anyway. It’s all connected.’
‘Go on.’
‘Politics. That’s what this is all about. The business with Titanic had political fallout, didn’t it? Inquiries in the States and over here. We had Senator Smith jumping up and down looking for someone to blame, then the Brits with the Board of Trade keeping a tight lid on everything. Sure, we all remember fifteen hundred people went down with the ship for whatever reason. But as transport disasters go it prompted a helluva lot of upset on both sides of the pond. Now we’re seeing a government minister on this side getting himself in a sweat soon as the news breaks they found the wreck, or is that just a coincidence?’
Billie nodded. ‘Good point. But don’t forget all we’ve got to go on is what Emma’s told us. If Peter Gris really did have something to do with her brother’s death, I’m still not convinced it was all about that document of hers. She says she’s scared, and I believe her. She says she tried to cut his balls off, but we’ve only her word for that.’
‘Anyone tried to do that to me, I’d be pretty mad about it!’
‘Me too. But what if it’s all in her imagination? Or simply a lie? She certainly made up that one about sexual assault. So, what else? Gris is dead. She admitted that, and yet Emma’s still panicking. If it was all just about politics, what makes her react that way?’
Ed flicked the right indicator, accelerating to pass a large truck. ‘Something bad. I sense a desperate act. You were stalling her and she knew she had to push you. Doing what she did was certainly effective. Would you really have made this trip if she hadn’t lied like she did?’
‘Straight answer? Yes, I would. I was working on pulling a sicky because I did believe her story. Now I’m not so sure.’
‘Sceptic. You’re just sore because you got your ass kicked.’
They sat in silence for a few miles in weekday traffic free of congestion despite the occasional lane closure for maintenance purposes. Billie’s mind wandered to thoughts about Ed’s suggestion for visiting Belfast. The idea had a lot of appeal. How much had changed there since Emma’s brother died? The Troubles had dropped from the front pages of the press, with greater emphasis on promoting tourism and culture. Partisan politics was not entirely confined to the past, yet a workable solution appeared to have been found. But where did Peter Gris fit in?
Billie took out his phone and browsed Wikipedia for material on the former Conservative politician. He found he had first been promoted to Cabinet office in 1983, and appointed as Northern Ireland Secretary in August 1985, just before Robert Ballard had discovered the wreck of the Titanic. The Anglo-Irish Agreement had been signed soon after, on 15th November. Emma had told him her father was killed around that time, and his own research seemed to confirm that. She’d implied it was because he had threatened embarrassment to the government by releasing that document. Maybe it was more than that? Maybe the whole Agreement had been in danger. Who else would be keener to remove such a threat than the Cabinet Minister responsible for its safe delivery? Okay, so on that basis there was an element of truth in Emma’s story. But would that still account for Gris somehow being involved in the death of Brendan Faulkner a year later? Emma said she had felt strongly enough about Gris to attack him in person seventeen years ago. Gris would have been on the Opposition benches by then. Billie scrolled down the page and swallowed hard. He read that Peter Gris had survived two attempts on his life: the first was in 1984 as part of the IRA bombing of government ministers in Brighton, but the second had been at a private function in London in 1999. There were no further details. Shit. Emma’s story was appearing more and more credible.
‘Who’s that singer from Manchester?’
‘What?’ Billie looked up from his phone in time to see a road sign indicate they were now in England.
‘You know, frontman of The Smiths, great voice… got it… Morrissey! Let’s have a listen to his stuff seeing we’re heading for his home town. You got any favourites?’
*
Heavy clouds lay in ambush as they worked their way south past the Lake District. Ed switched on the sidelights and flipped the speed on the wipers as the rain’s assault alternated between full-on and annoying. They broke their journey for a fast-food comfort break at a service station north of Lancaster before reaching their destination at a Salford Quays hotel just after nine. As Ed walked ahead to the glass entrance door, it swung open from inside. A man with a ponytail exchanged a smile and stopped to hold the door open on his way to the car park.
‘Thanks. Okay, Billie, this is where you get big and brave and pretend we’re just married.’
‘Shut up, Slaphead. Your jokes are showing their age.’
Ponytail noted the banter as he let the door go behind the new guests. He walked on and beeped the electrics of his car before pulling out his phone and sliding into the driver’s seat. But he didn’t bother with the ignition. Instead he tapped, searched and scrolled the small screen in his hand until he found the images he was looking for. At least two photographs from the Glasgow Hilton lobby featured the men who had just passed him in the doorway. Right there, in cosy proximity to Emma Dearing.